


Be My Luck

by mrasaki



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Animal Transformation, BFFery, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Barton & Tony Stark Friendship, Corgis, Fluff, Humor, Loki is a troll, M/M, More Fluff, corgi!fic, do I get a trope bingo card yet, marriage fic, vegas fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 22:34:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrasaki/pseuds/mrasaki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"No, no," Clint says, recovering himself. "I mean, okay, this is weird, probably one of the top ten weirdest things to ever happen to us, but <i>corgis</i>?"</p><p>"Loki is a strange dude," Tony says sagely, as if that explains everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be My Luck

**Author's Note:**

> I was writing serious downer fic and got stuck, so while browsing [corgi](http://just-mrasaki.tumblr.com/post/62070506851/harryhiscorginess-morning-belly-rub-please) [tumblrs](http://1996-0000.tumblr.com/post/62527126642) (because, [corgis](http://just-mrasaki.tumblr.com/post/62551410275/earthofdogs-splat)) sleep-deprived at 2am and thinking bemusedly on common C/C tropes (because, [CORGIS](http://just-mrasaki.tumblr.com/post/62552415082/nakedbartender-why-not-start-your-friday-with-a)), I started writing a fluffy, supremely silly, humorous '5+1' marriage fic that never got past the first scenario. *jazz hands* REASONS!
> 
> WARNING: Brief homophobia (by OC) in beginning. Mentions of casual drug use.
> 
> ETA much, much later: Since this fic was posted, gay marriage was legalized across the US!

Natasha is drunk, and silent. Thor is dismayed, but also drunk. Tony is somewhat drunk, but thinks he'll never not find this hilarious, drunk or sober. The gum-popping woman serving as receptionist at the tacky little chapel decorated in fake flowers and backgrounded by bleeping slot machines, just stares at them with dead eyes and shrugs. "As long as you've got the money," she says.

"Are you sure this isn't illegal?" Steve says worriedly, as if this is a more important moral dilemma to settle than being out and about in Sin City trying to marry two dogs who are actually men who are in love with each other except everyone but them knows it. Which, it probably is, considering Steve's the only one who's anywhere near sober despite their best efforts before the evening took a strange and rather upsetting turn.

"Nah, people do these for their dogs all the time. It's cute n stuff. Though usually it's not a last-minute thing?" She shrugs. "We don't care s'long as you're not one of those gays, not in Nevada." She's still holding out her palm. "Cash or card? We don't take checks, but there's an ATM down the street at the gas station if you need."

Clint squirms around in Natasha's arms to gnaw at an itchy spot on his leg. Coulson leans forward, his ears flattened back against his head, and glares at the woman, unblinking.

The woman withdraws her hand. "Your dog gonna bite me?"

"I'd be careful with your terminology, if I were you," Natasha advises her sweetly.

Tony elbows Steve hard before he can say something about dogs, gay dogs, or gay dog marriage. "Card, always card," he says breezily. "And a healthy tip for you too, ma'am," making Steve purse his lips at him disapprovingly because Steve can tell Tony's being sarcastic. After many years of Tony-observation, Steve’s learned that Tony doesn't deign to use any kind of formal salutation unless he's drunk and feeling more than a little puckish. 

Steve's not exactly sure about the tipping part, though. He's seen Tony use it both as carrot and stick so maybe Tony's bribing the woman, because Steve's pretty sure they need a legal document at the end of all this. Or at least a semi-legal one. Or – or at least _something_ , because while they're inebriated enough for this situation to make some kind of sense, none of them are sober enough to navigate the logistics of state law or Asgardian fuckery.

The less he questions this, he decides, the better.

"Cash, actually," Natasha interrupts. She shoots a dark look at Tony that says clearly, _no paper trail_. Because – yes. This would be embarrassing if this got out. There've been some doozies in the past that Tony likes to think of euphemistically as 'team-building activities,' like the time Steve was papped punching a Skrull who at the time happened to be impersonating the Chair of the House Ways and Means Committee. These incidents mostly result in Fury threatening to replace them with the X-Men because though the X-Men can be rather annoyingly self-righteous, at least they don't punch Republicans who are the most enthusiastic funders of clandestine intelligence organizations that like to operate outside the boundaries of national and international law.

"Are you sure there's no other way?" Steve asks desperately.

"I am sorry, my friend," Thor says, looking hang _dog_ – ha, Tony kills himself – as he fiddles with Mjolnir, passing it from hand to hand like he does when he wishes very much he were punching something. "But Loki's enchantments are always difficult to break. He is thorough and ever particular for details, with very few loopholes to outwit him by."

"You know," Tony says musingly as he digs around in his pockets and comes up with fluff, change, poker chips, some wadded bills of varying denominations, and not his wallet, "You ever think that, in another life, Loki would've made an excellent lawyer?"

"—and he did say they had to marry their true loves within twelve hours, so –"

"This is so undignified," Steve says with the air of a man making his last stand. "It shouldn't be like this."

"Oh, you mean like two corgis having a corgi wedding in an off-Strip wedding chapel in Vegas?" 

Coulson, having dropped his creepy, unblinking stare at the woman, chooses this moment to yap and paddle his dangling legs, squirming pointedly until Bruce puts him down. He immediately makes a beeline for Natasha. Somebody – Bruce, likely; Tony has never owned or allowed such a thing within five yards of his person in his life – has procured a red and blue polka dot bow tie somewhere during the course of the evening and tied it around Coulson's neck. It adds to Coulson's jaunty appeal as he sits and stares at Natasha with big liquid eyes until Natasha rolls her eyes and puts the suddenly struggling Clint down too. 

They touch noses, as if communing in secret corgi morse code.

"Are you sure the collar's on the right guy?" Bruce asks Tony. "I mean, they look nearly identical as dogs."

"No worries," Tony replies with great good cheer as he shoves quarters at the woman, who's counting the growing pile of coins with an increasingly sour look on her face. "Agent's just a bit more roly-poly around the – _ow, jesus fuck!_ "

"You asked for it," Natasha points out. She is not amused. The dogs are not amused. Tony's ass is not amused, and has two neat semi-circles in the shape of Coulson's teeth imprinted into it.

"You can go in now," the woman says. She says this in the same tone as somebody would say, "You can go to hell now," but they ignore that and rush into the tiny, equally tacky chapel.

Obviously, this isn't the strangest thing the officiant has ever seen, because after one expressive look at the dogs bounding up the aisle towards him, tongues lolling, brimming with corgi _joie de vivre_ , then another at the motley, still-semi-drunk group crowding onto the rows of narrow plastic chairs who turn to stare at him as one, he sighs deeply, re-slicks his hair over his bald spot, and commences the ceremony with the air of someone who is not paid nearly enough to deal with this at 1 a.m.

"This is the last time we let you take us to Vegas," Steve hisses at Tony as the officiant mumbles through the opening passages. "I don't care how much of an American institution and mandatory experience of the modern age you say it is." 

"Look, I've said this already and it looks like I'll have to say it again. How was I supposed to know we'd somehow stumble across Loki's daughter in freakin' _Vegas_?"

"And piss her off, don't forget that," Bruce adds helpfully. He's almost preternaturally calm, a faint smile permanently pasted to his face, probably helped well along by the space brownie he'd liberated off a group of scantily clad twenty-somethings two hours ago while everybody else had been freaking out over two of their team being turned into corgis. "And by 'we' I mean 'you.' And by 'piss off' I mean 'piss off a _lot_.'" He grins.

"Semantics, and you know it," Tony mutters. "And how was I supposed to know she was Loki's daughter? I didn't even know he had kids."

"If you never studied or read mythology, maybe you should try reading the SHIELD dossiers once in a while."

Tony chooses to ignore this. "Who would even have a kid with Loki? I mean, honestly, I need to have a talk with that woman. Was it even a woman? Monster. Person-thing of dubious taste."

A small wedding bouquet of plastic flowers flies through the air and hits Tony smack right between the eyes. "Be quiet," Natasha hisses at them. 

Thor gives Tony a deeply wounded look of _who wouldn't wish to have a child with my ever so dashingly handsome brother, who is like an evil Hugh Grant?_ That, coupled with the twin cuteness of Coulson and Clint glaring at him over their shoulders as they sit in front of the officiant, round furry butts pointed at him, still doesn't shut Tony up because nobody, goddamn _nobody_ tells Tony to shut up and succeeds.

Well, except maybe Pepper.

And maybe Rhodey.

"Shutting up," he says loudly. "What, I'm doing it."

Clint barks.

Tony points a finger at him. "No, you shush."

Now the officiant's reading faster, having evidently realized that this is no ordinary group of drunken weirdos. He's starting to sweat, the shine of his forehead nearly blinding under the fluorescent lighting and pink neon tubing. "…speak now or forever hold their peace." He gives it a beat, glancing up nervously at Tony as if expecting another outburst. 

Everybody turns to Tony and glares.

Tony rolls his eyes and flaps a hand at the guy to continue.

"Ah, um. Okay. Where was – ah. Continuing. Will you take this dog—"

"Man," Natasha corrects. She gives him a saccharine smile that consists of entirely too many teeth. The man stares at it as if mesmerized, seems about to argue, and then hurriedly goes on.

"— _man_ , to be your lawfully wedded…um –"

Coulson growls. 

"Husband," Natasha supplies helpfully. "There's a theme here. Keep up."

"—In sickness and in health; forsaking all others, be true to er, him as long as you both shall live?" He finishes this in a rush, then stops, seeming to suck in his breath on an inhale, eyes on Natasha.

Clint woofs a loud assent immediately into the waiting silence over Coulson's own, quieter but just as assured bark. Then Clint seems to realize what he's done in front of god and everybody, and gives a low whine, suddenly embarrassed. He lies down and hides his face under his paws as if wishing a giant hole would appear in the stained carpet and swallow him whole. 

Obviously not having any of that, Coulson pounces on him, tongue lolling out, and proceeds to lick him until Clint yelps, flailing at him with all four paws. They roll over and over across the floor, growling and nipping at each other joyfully, and end up with Coulson sprawled across Clint, gnawing on his ear.

The officiant clears his throat. "Uh – I now pronounce you…" he catches the look in Natasha's eye. "But, but lady, it's not legal in Nevada, I can't— Oh god, I'm sorry, you don't need to – ow, _ow_ , please, ma'am, I need that — I—okay, they're married, okay? Okay? I now pronounce them man and husband," he finishes in a near wail.

Natasha lets go of the man's ear. "Good," she says, and smiles.

Clint grabs Coulson's snout in his mouth and worries at it affectionately. Coulson whuffs and licks him again.

"I'm going to need to see my dentist after this," Tony mutters. "For my cavities."

"Um, how do we make them kiss?" Bruce asks. He's holding their makeshift rings, actually two matching collars liberally studded with rhinestones that Tony had insisted on buying in the Bellagio. Which, they could've had this ceremony _in_ the Bellagio, except the Bellagio can't be bribed into makeshift dog weddings and Pepper had flatly refused to authorize the purchase. She wouldn't have if Tony could have told her why he wanted to buy the casino, except he couldn't, because then she would've said, " _Tony!_ ” in that high shocked tone that always makes him cringe. 

"Do they have to kiss?" Steve asks. He has his hands poised, as if uncertain if he should applaud. "Do dogs kiss? Why are we even having this question?" 

"Because," Bruce points out patiently, "They haven't changed back yet." 

The realization sinks between them like a lead weight. They turn to stare at the two oblivious dogs on the floor.

So, if we assume this follows any kind of fairytale," Bruce continues, "Maybe they should kiss."

"I do not recall there being any stipulation of the kind in what my niece and my brother said."

"Maybe," Tony says slowly, knowing this is going to be a super-unpopular idea, "They aren't each other's true loves."

Silence.

Then more silence. 

"That's the dumbest fucking thing I've ever heard," Natasha says succinctly.

"Who are you suggesting instead?" Steve asks. He's dropped his hands to his sides now, but he's got the look of a man unsure if he's dreaming or in Timbuktu.

Tony slides over to his left until both Steve and Thor are between him and Natasha. He points. "Her."

He's fully prepared to meet the consequences of his suggestion (albeit with Steve and Thor's help) and pretty much any reaction, both good or bad, except for Natasha bursting into laughter. She laughs until she cries, deep belly laughs interspersed with high breathless hiccups. She staggers across the aisle to land heavily in one of the white plastic chairs, holding her gut.

"Just a 'No, you're full of shit, Stark,' would've been fine," Tony grumbles.

Natasha continues to laugh hysterically. The dogs lift their heads and stare at her in concern.

"I think you broke her," Thor comments.

"I was just _saying_ ," Tony mutters.

"Well," Bruce continues on slowly, clearly oblivious to the chaos in the name of unraveling this thread of scientific logic to its very end, bless his heart, "If we allow the possibility that they are not each other's true loves, then the odds of any of us being theirs is probably unlikely. And it seems hardly feasible for each of us to try marrying them in combination, even without the issue of divorce or bigamy."

"You never know, they might carry a secret torch for one of us. Like, I know Coulson has had a crush on Steve forever," Tony interrupts. He looks around. Steve is staring at him, somewhat bug-eyed, cheeks pinked. "What, I’m just saying." 

Steve's eyes skitter to Coulson, who's still sprawled out over Clint like a chubby rug, and his cheeks pink more. His gaze returns to Tony in disbelief. Tony grins at him and waggles his eyebrows. 

Bruce ignores him altogether. "—And if kissing isn't a requirement, then kissing them each in turn will be pointless."

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. "I think we should call Fury now."

Tony says immediately, "No, no, no. _Hell_ no. I will not have my Vegas weekend ruined by ol' Stink-Eye yelling at me. Just no."

"Tony. We got his lieutenant and one of the Avengers turned into dogs."

"He'll replace us with the X-Men. Wolverine will plant his butt in _your_ favorite armchair, Steve, think about it." He watches Steve think about it, and then adds, "And you know Logan bathes only once a year, and then only if he's thrown into a lake by a Sentinel."

Steve takes a deep breath and looks pained in that way only Steve can, which means he's going to do the right thing anyway despite all personal sacrifices.

They all exchange glances in grim silence. Tony silently pleads with the others with his eyes. He has soulful eyes, if he does say so himself; they're his best feature besides his goatee and, oh yeah, the suit, and he spends his non-superhero days sweet-talking investors and board members, so by all rights they _should_ work.

Finally Natasha lifts one elegant shoulder in a shrug. "He has to know eventually." She ignores Tony's outraged expression of betrayal. "Plus there's probably a video of this and even if it doesn't turn into an Avengers Gone Wild vid on Youtube it will, at a minimum, look like we're doing something downright strange with two dogs and a wedding chapel."

"Here's an idea. Maybe? Maybe we can leave them in Fury's office and the sheer cuteness will melt his heart and distract him long enough for us to fly to Tahiti where I'm pretty sure there's no extradition treaty? Pep will cover for us."

As if sensing all the distress Tony is feeling and probably broadcasting on all bandwidths, Clint scrambles to his feet and pads over. 

He sniffs at a stain of mysterious origins on Tony's knee. Then, apparently satisfied, he makes to leap up on top of the chair next to Tony but with his stubby legs he makes it only a foot off the floor before tottering backwards on his hind legs, all of his usual human grace and agility totally gone. 

He overbalances and sprawls on his back with a yip and an audible thud that shakes the floor. 

He looks down at himself and his splayed legs in outraged surprise. Coulson dashes over and barks, concerned.

Tony covers his face. "Oh god. Hawkeye. What have we done to you?"

"How about – " Steve sounds strained. "I mean, SHIELD might be able to provide other solutions we haven't thought of. What if they're stuck like this forever?" 

"Maybe we just need time for the breaking of the spell to work," Bruce suggests.

Tony grasps at the suggestion like a drowning man at a lifeline. Good Bruce. Good science buddy, who always has a good, logical, scientific idea that doesn't involve Tony getting yelled at, because pissing off Hela? Sort of his fault. 

"Yeah. Yeah! Just a day or two. Maybe it's like, waiting for medicine to start working. And, in the meantime Thor can hunt down Loki and he can _make_ him turn them back, and, and, Fury never has to know." Tony tries his best winning smile which isn't so successful this time; it twitches on his pale face before falling off like a weak refrigerator magnet. Sure, Tony can say _fuck you_ to Fury anytime he wants, in fact says it at least once a month, but he's got a good thing going with the Avengers now and despite all appearances he doesn't enjoy watching the muscles of Fury's jaw work like a spastic gerbil if things are _actually_ Tony's fault.

"Loki is hard to find if he does not want to be found," Thor nods, "But I will do my best." He sounds glum, looking about as thrilled as any person who is always tasked with apologizing for and corralling psychopathic drama-mongering relatives, can look.

"Well," Steve bulls on. He's still got that determinedly noble look hardening his features and the set of his shoulders, but as Tony watches, it begins to melt somewhat around the edges, probably as he thinks of Wolverine smoking one of his heinous cigars and dropping ashes everywhere while sitting in Steve's armchair.

Tony sees his chance. "I swear to god," he promises, "If you make us call Fury, you're going to be the one to tell him we got his best friend and most trusted subordinate turned into a dog with no legs." He pauses until he's sure Steve is listening, then zeroes in for the kill, empathically pointing at Clint, who seems to be trying to make snow angels on his back, "And then we married him to the guy, also a dog with no legs, who once glued Fury's ass to a chair on a dare."

Steve opens and closes his mouth, looking around the room at them. They stare back at him solemnly, waiting for his decision. The officiant gawps at them from the grotesquely festooned wedding arch, all goggling round eyes and gaping mouth. Tony will probably have to bribe this one, too, Steve thinks morosely. Clint is still on his back, perplexedly paddling his legs in the air like an overturned turtle. Coulson is sniffing at him and trying to nudge him back over, without success. 

Steve suddenly has a headache. It's probably psychosomatic, because in theory he can't get headaches, but there it is, like an iron spike hammered straight through his brain from temple to temple. Oh god, this is the absolute last time he lets Tony talk him into a trip to Vegas. He still hasn't figured out how he got _YOLO_ — whatever that means — sunburned across his back the last time when supposedly, like getting a headache, he can't tan.

"Maybe – Maybe a couple days won't hurt," he concedes, weakly.

***

Clint wakes up covered in fur.

It's soft, and it tickles his nose and makes him sneeze. Fumbling one hand out, without opening his eyes, he discovers he's cocooned in a blanket of…fur. It's kind of gross and comfortably luxurious at the same time.

"Wha—f'ck?" he says very eloquently.

Then it dawns on him that he's totally naked, cocooned in fur, and on the heels of that discovery, that he's not alone. 

Phil is under the blanket with him, also naked, and his eyes are open, looking at him.

"Uh, hello," Clint says. "Um."

"What do you remember about last night?" Phil says very casually, as if their faces aren't four inches apart and they're sharing air and warmth and Clint's very sure that's Phil's foot touching his own.

Clint thinks. He remembers endless vodka shots and margaritas, and mocking Tony losing at poker at the high-roller tables. (And wow, Clint's never going to get used to the idea of people staking more than he makes in a year on a single hand, because it doesn't matter he's good buddies with a gaboolionnaire, Clint is and always will be firmly in the 99%). Then Tony being obnoxious to a smoking hot lady in green who Clint had instantly registered as dangerous because if there's anything Clint is good at, it's recognizing dangerous women and maybe becoming best friends with them. 

And then, out of nowhere, a dapper guy Clint almost recognized but didn't for some reason. There’d seemed to be a shimmer surrounding him that made him…slippery somehow. Hard to focus on. There had been an argument, then a flash of green….

And then—

And—

Mostly sensation from then on, as if he'd taken a dose of really good Ecstasy. Of motor sensations and waves of pleasure and thoughts of _good_ and _warm_ and _PhilPhilPhil_ and _FOOD!_ and _happy._

And also, weirdly: _Yay, good dog, I'm a good dog._

"Was something slipped in my drink?" Clint asks, cautiously.

"No," Phil says. "Are you going to freak out?" He's still eerily calm, in that way he gets when shit is hitting the fan, except Phil's also got those two lines of strain slashed on either side of his mouth that he gets when he's barely hanging onto his control with both hands and maybe his teeth.

It's this look that makes Clint realize that he's not.

He should, but he's not. He feels good, somnolent and warm and relaxed like he hasn't felt…in a really long time. Pretty much since never, really. A lifestyle as a runaway orphan and then felon and then merc and then SHIELD specialist and then superhero, isn't generally known for its relaxing properties.

Clint ventures, "Why are we naked?" And then, throwing his normal caution regarding Phil to wherever his clothes have gone, he blurts, "Did we have sex?" And – oh god, he hopes the answer is yes, because— _yes_. Soap operas have nothing on Clint and Clint's talent for yearning at specific unattainable people from a distance for years, except the both of them are suspiciously free of bodily fluids or the good kind of soreness, and Clint is beyond sure that Phil, no matter how high or drunk, would never take advantage of him.

"No." Phil's still studying him, as if unsure if Clint's lying. And – is that disappointment underlining that word? Oh god, please let it be disappointment. "And I'm technically not naked." This last, spoken in a dry, flat way that's Phil's _I'm trying a joke here to lighten the mood even though I know I'm terrible at it_ tone.

"Yeah. Nice bowtie." Clint grins through the way the sight of the ugly thing — it looks like the kind of atrocity Bruce wears when he ventures out to a science conference — makes his pulse jump, because now he wants to taste that patch of skin just above it with his tongue and maybe do filthy things to it. "Very hipster." His voice is hoarse. 

Phil makes a face at him for that but doesn't move away, even though the air beneath the blanket has gotten a bit stale.

And that, tangled with the warm memories of Phil last night as a constant presence warm and protective by his side, and the way a fold of the blanket has imprinted itself across Phil's forehead gives Clint the courage – or recklessness, because he also thinks _fuck it_ – to scoot forward those four inches and give Phil a chaste, dry peck on the lips. Because – this is Phil, Phil first thing in the morning, his eyes still crusted and face blanket-creased with a seam across his cheek like a brand, Phil with morning breath and crinkling his eyes sleepily at him in the filtered light. Clint wants to wake up to this forever.

Phil blinks at him in surprise with those stupidly pretty lashes, a pause long enough for Clint to start having the overdue freakout. 

Then a pleased smile breaks across Phil's face like a sunrise. Clint grins wildly back, both in relief and a huge, sudden happiness, and has to lunge forward to kiss him again. 

"Good morning," Phil says finally after the main part of the kiss is over and they're resting their faces against each other, absorbing warmth and each other's breath. His lips move against Clint's stubble. It tickles. Clint wonders that he spent so much time being stupid about Phil, when it's this easy.

"I have no idea what time it is."

"Clint," Phil says. He says the name slowly, as if savoring an excellent wine he's never tasted before. 

"Mm." Clint smiles and leans in for another kiss.

Phil goes with it, even rolls them over until he's on top and draped over Clint and worrying his earlobe with his teeth in a way that makes Clint shiver and want to scream. And yet, it feels somehow strangely familiar, as if Phil's done this before. 

Then he pulls away and says more seriously, "Clint." Business-like now, even as he's out of breath and his hair is mussed. "Clint. Before we — do anything else, I think I should tell you something." He's got his bad news face on. 

Clint's heart sinks. Because nothing good's ever come of that combination of look and tone, ever. At least the erection that's pressed into his thigh is a reassurance that Phil isn't going to do something as cruel as breaking up with Clint just as Clint's finally sorting all this out and is about to get some.

Then their blanket gets ripped off in an explosion of dog hair. 

Natasha says, "For heaven's sake, Stark."

"Hey," Tony says. He looks as if he hasn't slept in a week. He has a can of Red Bull in one hand, their blanket in the other, and a giant cup full of tokens tucked into one armpit. 

He sees them glaring back at him, covered in dog hair but totally and completely human, and his face crumples with relief. He drops the blanket and sags against a wall as if his legs are too weak to hold him anymore. "Oh my god, thank you god, thank you whoever up there, including Thor even though I know for sure Thor didn't help at all because he spent the rest of last night sulking by the nickel slot machines, _thank you_."

"Stark," Phil says with the kind of icy politeness that anyone who's encountered it knows to run for the hills and of course Tony Stark is deliberately oblivious to, "Can we help you?" Natasha, ever the helpful angel, levels a triumphant _I told you so_ look at Tony.

Tony sits up. "No! No, just checking that you're –" he seems to realize then that they're both naked and he chokes on his own spit and starts coughing. "—Ehem. I – that you're not corgis anymore. And – that's good, because we took you to the Rio seafood buffet last night and oh my god, I didn't know corgis have zero self-control when it comes to food. In all seriousness we thought you were going to die." He flaps a hand at them, at where Phil's yanked the blanket back over himself and Clint. "I kind of came to make sure you didn't explode overnight, but turned back to human is so, so much better."

"Corgis?" Clint says blankly, still two or three steps behind.

"Stark, shut up," Natasha warns.

"No, no," Clint says, recovering himself. "I mean, okay, this is weird, probably one of the top ten weirdest things to ever happen to us, but _corgis_?"

"Loki is a strange dude," Tony says sagely, as if that explains everything. To give him credit, Clint supposes, it very well does in most cases.

"Guess that's where all this fur came from." Clint plucks at the clumps of dog hair matted into the sheets, which really is enough to make a whole 'nother dog, and stops. He doesn't want to delve into his memories of last night too deeply, of _Phil_ and _warm_ and _happy_ and _safe_ and _mine_ , because those memories are his, and only his, and he will cherish them to the end of his days no matter what happens. He doesn't even care that it happened as a dog. Being a dog might've been a good thing, all things considered, because god knows he hadn't been getting much traction as a human.

Clint is now even more glad that the blanket wasn't torn totally off them because, as if reading his thoughts, Phil slides his leg fractionally against Clint's. Phil probably means it as a comforting gesture of solidarity, but it makes Clint's flagging erection twitch and suddenly Clint really, really, _really_ needs to be alone with him right now.

Apparently Natasha and Stark have been having a non-verbal argument over their heads because Natasha says aloud in a tone that threatens death and purple-nurples, "Stark. Don’t even. Not now."

"I wasn't going to – I mean, they have to know eventually."

"No."

"What," Clint demands. He's been around a lot of arguments in his life, both understated and blatant, perhaps too many. The seven year old he was knows when it's bad — and when it's about him. "What are you talking about?"

Phil sighs and takes the matter out of their hands. "Clint," he says, and raises himself to an elbow to look down at him very seriously. "We got married," he says simply. "We had to, or stay dogs forever."

They all look at him and hold their breaths as if they're expecting him to scream and lock himself in the bathroom or something. Which is vaguely insulting, because Clint is very good under pressure, thank you very much. 

Well, okay. Clint will admit he doesn't have such a hot track record with dealing with _personal_ things, he'd vastly prefer an invasion of Doom-bots to that. But this? This is ridiculous. 

Clint doesn't try to roll under the bed and hide there forever, he snorts laughter. "Are you kidding? Gay marriage, much less...what, dog marriage? isn't legal in Nevada, at least the last time I checked."

"See, that's what we thought," Tony says promptly as if he's been rehearsing this exact conversation in his head. "So we were thinking of alternative solutions to breaking the spell in case this wedding thing didn't work out – which, we have amazing photos to show you, you're both dressed up as _and_ posed with Elvis – like flying you up to New York to get really, legally married. Well, as married as two corgis can get. We couldn't have made it within the time limit but we were going to try to make it work on a technicality. Or, we were going to take you both back to Fury and watch him have a coronary. But," he gestures with his Red Bull, heedless of the liquid that sloshes out over his hand, "like Bruce theorized, any exchange of vows anywhere, and you're married in the eyes of Asgard." He nods to himself. "And that's all that matters."

Finished, he takes a long slurp of Red Bull and gives them the slightly unfocused gimlet stare of one who is over-caffeinated, over-stressed, and quite possibly not even in the same plane of existence at the moment.

"Okay?" Clint gets out. "I mean." He falters at the look on Phil's face. Phil's got his ultimate poker face on, which can mean anything from horror to joy to trying to remember the scores from the 1988 World Series. After nearly fifteen years of practice, Clint is still no better at cracking that stone wall than when he started, so he takes his best stab at what Phil might be thinking and goes with, "I mean, annulment is an option here, right." 

This is not what is actually in his head. What is in his head is _I am surprised and shocked by this revelation but hardly disgusted by it, but I would like to present Phil with all his options because this is indeed a most unusual situation and, well, it's me,_ except Clint does this thing where he thinks thoughts and they twist like a pretzel on the way out from his brain to his mouth and then proceed to punch him right between the eyes. Especially when people are staring at him, like Tony in his horrific shiny smoking jacket bathrobe or whatever it is and Natasha looking like she can't decide whether to slap him silly or just glare at him with extreme disappointment (and opting instead for a frightening mix of the two), and Phil, looking at him like…like…Clint doesn't know. 

Something about that blank expressionlessness has changed, and Clint doesn't think it's for the better. "Wait, I'm fucking this up," he says desperately. "And really, you have to spring this on a guy who's just been turned back from being a dog and is also hung-over and naked?"

"Can you give us some privacy?" Phil asks.

"Sure, okay, but just one stipulation," Tony says. "That is my bed, that your fat corgi butts annexed last night – _annexed_ , as in, invaded, took over, hijacked. So no sex. Absolutely no sex on my bed."

"Get out," Phil tells him.

"Seriously, no sex," Tony says desperately over his shoulder, yelping as Natasha does some kind of Vulcan nerve pinch and practically frogmarches him out, his feet barely touching the floor the entire way. Natasha shoots Phil a meaningful one-second look, then the door slams shut behind them. 

Clint flops back onto his back and stares at the ceiling. He wonders at his ability to put his foot in it, every time. Jeez, listening to himself, a person would never know he's the mouthy one on the team. But this — this is more important and harder to get right than zippy one-liners about stupid shit that don't matter. 

"There's no way for me to reference biting him in the ass without it being weird, is there?" Phil asks Clint seriously over the rattle of the doorhandle and the slide of plastic indicating the placement of a _Do Not Disturb_ sign.

Clint's caught in a laugh. Then he coughs as he inhales dog hair. "I doubt it. Also, please, please don't, I don't need that image in my brain."

"It was very satisfying," Phil says, smiling. "You should try it sometime."

"See, that? Creepy." The memories are starting to come clearer now that he knows what he's looking at. And why they're monochrome. "You remember everything?"

"Not really," Phil says. "Just the broad strokes. But I woke up earlier than you. I had more time to digest the news."

"Did you – you watched me sleep."

"Too creepy again?"

Clint smirks despite himself. "A little bit."

Phil sighs. "Clint, we can get an annulment if you want." He presses on before Clint can interrupt. "Although I doubt we will have to do anything in Nevada as it's not legal here, but surely Asgard will –" 

The words are obviously costing him something, but his eyes are steady on Clint's because Phil is nothing but the bravest man Clint's ever known. But his gaze remains unblinking for a half-second too long and there's something in it that seems like it's breaking. He's retreated behind a wall, preoccupying himself with mundanities and details as the bureaucrat Clint knows Phil pretends to be when he's trying to regroup and recover his normal equanimity. Clint hates it when he gets like this, and hates himself for causing it.

"Phil, shut up," he says, and because this worked out well for him before, kisses him.

He tries to put everything he can't say into that dry slide of lips. It starts out soft and gentle as if Phil is a deer that spooks easily, but he quickly finds he has to press harder and involve his tongue as Phil ignores his directive and tries to keep talking anyway. And okay, he doesn't really need to throw a leg over Phil to get his point across and explore the flat planes of his chest and stomach that's just soft enough to be pleasing, it's just a bonus. 

"I'm going to assume this means you're okay with the status quo," Phil says finally, entirely too composed considering Clint's mouth is traveling south, leaving a hot trail zig-zagging down his chest, leaving little bites as he goes. Clint's generally not a biter, but he's finding that Phil is both sensitive and ticklish, and the little jerk Phil makes after that comment when Clint nips him just below his nipple touches something feral in Clint. Phil makes a high, lost sound when Clint fastens his teeth high on Phil's thigh where it meets his hip.

"You really need me to spell it out for you?" Clint gripes. This comes out muffled. Clint rubs his cheek against Phil's straining cock because it's right there and lets his stubble drag against it to punctuate his point because come on, Clint is a man of action, not words, and he would've thought that the conclusion to that day's (and night's) events would've been plenty obvious by the simple fact that Clint's still here. And in the very near vicinity of someplace interesting that has Phil squirming around restlessly when Clint's breath ghosts across it as he speaks.

"Clint, please." The soft plea stops Clint in his tracks. Phil is a proud man and not one to beg. Clint knows this has only a small fraction to do with how Clint has given the tip of his cock one slow suck and how his hands are fisted respectively in the sheet and in Clint's hair, and everything to do with Phil needing an absolute from Clint.

Clint lifts his head away from chasing the taste of Phil's precum. Phil's thighs tremble around his head and the hand fisted in his hair clenches once, reflexively, as if Phil can't help himself. Clint gropes for the right words. "I didn't mean what I said — you know, that way." 

He groans to himself, because he couldn't sound more brain dead if he tried.

"I'm okay with it. Being married. Doing this. Because, I've always been okay with it, with you. I mean, if you were okay with it too, which I can't tell half the time because your poker faces are just that good." His face is flaming. He just wants Coulson to say something instead of just laying there, the hair of his leg prickly against Clint's cheek, and giving him that unnervingly steady blue stare. How Phil can maintain his head angled like that to look down his body at Clint without getting a crick in his neck, Clint can't imagine.

"I love you, Clint," Phil says simply.

The confession punches into Clint like a physical blow, leaving him breathless. 

"We should get turned into dogs more often," he says when he gets his voice under some semblance of control, feeling lightheaded like he's just got a dose of the really good gas at the dentist's.

"We are pretty bad at this as humans, aren't we?" Phil says agreeably. 

Of course Phil understands everything Clint is too jumbled up to say, always has, and in that moment of overwhelming gratitude Clint can't help himself. 

He says, "Arf." 

Clint laughs at the look on Phil's face until he inhales a floating dog hair and chokes. Phil waits him out with long-suffering patience, then yanks him up to grab his dick while Clint's distracted with learning to breathe again. Clint nearly swallows his tongue. 

More dog hair showers around them as they tangle further into the goose-down comforter, practically drowning in the plush mattress with the weird mixture of hard and soft hotel pillows that are never quite right. 

He wants to stay like this forever, watching that pink flush across Coulson's cheekbones spread down his neck and chest. But Coulson has pressed himself all up Clint's side (or Clint moved, he can't remember) and has found a spot on Clint's neck that makes him shiver and go hot and cold all at the same time, so honoring Tony's request kinda flies out the window.

***

"I hate you," Tony mutters. "I hate all of you, I just want that on the record."

Natasha slides down the pool chair until her entire torso, covered very inadequately by her postage-stamp sized bikini, is in the sun. It's almost cute, the way Steve keeps his eyes averted and firmly on his own mostly pasty feet, a dull flush of pink burning across his cheekbones. The top of a jaggedly drawn _Y_ on his shoulder peeks out of the arm hole of his loose tank top. "That's the ninth time you've said so," she says lazily. "It was only funny the first time."

"This has been a boon!" Thor says, grinning. "The best outcome we could have hoped for." He props his massive hands on his hips, golden and broad-shouldered in the intense sun, and – Tony lifts his hand to shield his face. 

"Thor, what have I told you about wearing banana hammocks? Seriously, my eyes. I'm blind. Just, no. Absolutely no."

Thor just goes on grinning, completely unfazed, all endless expanses of bare skin and long tresses of shining hair. A gaggle of middle aged women in madras shorts and sneakers walk by, ogling him openly. There's a long wolf whistle and then a spate of giggles. 

"Goddamn Asgardians," Tony mutters under his breath, glaring at the way Thor is flexing his abs. Thor's probably not even aware he's doing it.

Bruce raises one hand, not even looking up from his copy of _East of Eden_. "I fully support Thor's right to wear G-strings."

"Wow, you troll. I hate you too."

"You're outvoted, Stark. You're just jealous he's got something to fill it out," Natasha says. 

"I hate you too. And, low blow. Have you seen the codpiece of my suit?"

Steve chokes on his bloody mary. "Your suit has a codpiece?"

" _Yes_ , it's part of the bodily comfort systems for long flights and – you know what? Shut up, I don't need to explain this to you, just – shush. Nope, no judging me, I can feel all of you judging me from over there—"

Steve's saying with some concern, "Maybe you should get some sleep, Tony," when Clint drops into a boneless sprawl on the lounge chair next to Tony in a prolonged groan of cushions. He's wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt in garish greens and purples, and a smirk that speaks volumes.

"Ew," Tony says. "That's all. Just – ew."

Clint reaches over and steals Tony's mai tai off the deckside table. "You mean, 'Awwww yeah,'" he grins.

"I don't want to know. I love you like the brother I never had, Clinton Francis, but things like this? Aren't needed to enrich our friendship. Just so you know."

"Where's Phil?" Natasha asks, turning over carefully to roast her backside. Her face is turned away so Steve can't see the tiny smile curling her lips at the way the pink flush spreads down his neck.

As if summoned by magic, Coulson appears next to Tony. He's wearing beachcombers, sunscreen slathered in a white paste across his nose, not looking at all like he spent the last three hours having sweaty sex with Barton in Tony's bed. He's still got his government spook sunglasses on, and through them he gives Tony a long, opaque look which is still scary despite the beachcombers, the sunscreen, and his ratty t-shirt that says _I'm With Stupid_ that's obviously Clint's. The finger underneath the words is pointing straight at Tony.

"Sorry about your bed," Coulson says at last, and finally cracks into a smirk as fully self-satisfied as Clint's.

"One word again – ew," Tony gestures. "And congrats, by the way. Really happy for you both and all that jazz but still hate you and please let's never speak of this again."

Clint stretches. His shirt rides up, exposing one strip of tanned skin that Coulson is very obviously, unashamedly, eyeing. "Yeah, yeah," he replies lazily. "How about, you wanna be one of my groomsmen?"

Tony is caught off guard. "What, me? Really? — Okay. That's great, really really great." Tony's grinning in spite of himself like the total sap that he totally, _totally_ , is not. "Congratulations, Clint. Really. Come here. Bump." He holds out his fist. "Love ya, man. Gimme pound. Fistbump."

"Just hug him already, idiot," Nat says, and grabs Clint after Tony's done giving him a bearhug.

"You too," Tony tells Coulson, holding up his fist again. "C'mere, Agent. Or should I say the current and future Mr. Barton?"

"You're all my groomsmen. And lady!" Clint's telling Nat, the last word coming out in a high pitched wheeze as she tightens her headlock. "Nat, Nat, seriously —" he flails at her. "Of course you're automatically in the wedding party, all of you, so, so — Phil, Steve, Thor, a little help here —" 

"I concur," Thor says, striding close enough to help if he wanted. Which he apparently doesn't. Thor smells strongly of coconut oil. "I do not see why Tony gets to be asked first."

Jesus, Nat's like a boa constrictor. Now she's got her thighs locked around Clint's torso, his arm feels like it's getting ripped out of its socket, and his face is being mashed into the rough canvas of the deck chair. Clint had thought that he could hold his own against Nat except now he's discovering that she's been going easy on him, probably out of pity. "Because, Tony's bed? And I didn't think you guys would take it this way — Ow, Tasha, that's my arm, I kind of need that!" He manages to get his heel around to kick her smartly in the buttock. She growls, frees one hand, sucks on a finger, and sticks the wet finger in his ear.

"Agh!"

"Twenty on Natasha," Bruce says.

"That is a fool's bet," Thor says loftily.

"Nobody is betting on anybody," Steve says firmly. "Especially two former agents of SHIELD who've apparently regressed to their toddler years." 

"Okay, fifty." 

"Fifty of your Midgardian dollars, and ten boxes of Pop Tarts."

"You told Fury?" Tony nearly shouts over Phil's quieter, "He's my best friend, Tony, he was going to know eventually."

"I'm taking back my fistbump. I want a refund."

Steve has a headache again.

**Author's Note:**

> *Yes, Hela really does live in Vegas. Or at least she used to. I am really, really terrible at keeping up with the doings of various characters in the Marvel universe.
> 
> **Also, I rag on the X-Men, but I rag with love. X-Men was my first introduction into comic books back in the early 90's....and then that ridiculous Avengers vs. X-Men event happened.


End file.
